


Home Movies

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, First Time, Humor, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Kink Meme, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:21:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft tells John some things he didn't know about Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Movies

**Author's Note:**

> Filling [an old prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2290390#t2290390) or two ([well, sort of](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=28966119#t28966119)) on the kink meme.

**Title:** Home Movies  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** cuteness  
 **Disclaimer:** <—  
 **Pairing:** John/Sherlock  
 **Author's Notes:** Filling [an old prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2290390#t2290390) or two ([well, sort of](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=28966119#t28966119)) on the kink meme.  
 **Summary:** Mycroft tells John some things he didn't know about Sherlock.

 

 

There's a man leaning casually against a lamppost. He waits til John's walked past to make his presence known.

"John," he says gravely. "There is something you need to know about your new flatmate."

John shrugs, folds his arms. Mycroft isn't as scary as he thinks he is. "Well, let's have it."

"No no, not here. It's not . . ." Mycroft glances around Baker Street slyly. " . . . safe."

John rolls his eyes. "Yeah, okay, let's go." He wonders if they're going limo or helicopter, this time.

*

The very least Mycroft could do was have a piece of eyecandy around to break up the monotony of the limo interior. And when had John got so used to limos that he could comment on what a typical limo interior was? As it is, it's just empty luxury and Mycroft seated across from John with thoughtful, steepled fingers that remind him uncomfortably of Sherlock.

"This is of paramount importance, is it?" John says, because Mycroft is being suspiciously silent.

"I think you'll find what I have to show you of particular interest, yes," Mycroft says, because he can't go five seconds without being cryptic as hell.

John gives up on him, settles for looking out the window and trying to work out where exactly they're headed. It didn't seem to matter how long he'd lived in London proper—he inevitably got turned around whenever he ventured too far out of his comfort zone.

Eventually they pull up to a suitably remote and dodgy-looking building. After a ludicrous barrage of security checks, some of which include actual retina scans, they end up in a room like one of those home theaters you saw on television shows about rich people.

Mycroft walks over to a tiny vault in the corner. The matching tiny keypad he punches numbers into goes _beep_ about fifty times and John surmises the password is either the alphabet backwards or 'antidisestablishmentarianism' or, at a guess, every single line of _Jabberwocky_. When Mycroft faces him again he's got that same smarmy smile on his face, and, sorry, did anybody actually feel reassured by it?

He gestures for John to sit in one of the overstuffed chairs, then pops a DVD into an invisible player before sitting next to him. "Comfortable?"

"Not really, no." The chair _is_ sinfully comfortable, though. "Any time you feel like telling me what this is all about . . . "

"Oh, I think the evidence will speak for itself." And with that Mycroft pulls a remote out of nowhere and the projection screen comes to life.

John folds his arms. He's never surprised by Sherlock surprising him, anymore, and he rather doubts whatever is about to happen will be an exception.

 

> The camera focuses and unfocuses a few times. Then, a very young, impossibly babyfaced Sherlock comes into view. He can't be more than eight or nine years old. He stares into the lens sternly, but the sternness is somewhat undermined by his voice, which is at least two octaves higher, pure and young and lacking in its usual sardonic overtones.
> 
> "I'm only going to say this once, Mr 'Cringle'."
> 
> (There's actual air quoting in there. What primary school kid utilizes air quotes?)
> 
> "The jig is up. This ruse of yours has somehow convinced the whole world, including my own parents, for centuries. When you find this by your cookies and milk tonight, you will know you have met your match.
> 
> "I know your game, Santa, and you're not going to get away with it. Not this time." Sherlock glares much too dramatically, like he's practiced in the mirror to get it just right.
> 
> "Oh and . . . I should avoid those carrots by the hedgerow, if I was a reindeer. You've been warned. Expect to hear from me again. Soon."

 

The picture turns loudly to snow, and John could kick himself for jumping. Mycroft keeps watching the screen.

 

> Sherlock appears again, this time in the daylight with tousled hair and pajamas. They're red and have oddly cheerful skulls and crossbones on.
> 
> "Oh, you think you're so clever, Mycroft. In your clumsy efforts to perpetuate this age old Yuletide conspiracy, you have of course ended up damning yourself."
> 
> Sherlock holds up a half eaten cookie. "Just a little nibble on every single cookie _except_ the coconut, and oh, I wonder why _that_ could be." He smirks, then places the cookie on the tray and brushes crumbs off his hands delicately. 

> Snow. 

> Sherlock is building something that sparks and fizzes and looks like it could explode at any moment. There's a smartly dressed woman hovering in the background who is clearly in the middle of a gradual panic attack. (John should know.)
> 
> "Mycroft," she says, and then most of her words are obscured by a series of metal clangs. ". . . care to jump in here, dear?"
> 
> Mycroft sets the camera down, and suddenly half the screen is Sherlock's incomprehensible contraption and people gesturing at each other with their heads cut off.
> 
> "Stop it! Get off!"
> 
> "We put up with your fun little experiments all the time, Sherlock," teenaged Mycroft reasons. "Let's keep them fun and little, eh?"
> 
> "Hey, I needed that to—it's not going to work if you— _stop it_!" Sherlock stops trying to pry spare parts away form Mycroft and whirls on the woman, who's been surreptitiously extinguishing small fires in the meantime. "Mother!"
> 
> She stands between them now, putting her arms around their shoulders. (It should've been comfortingly domestic to watch, but John just finds it disturbing. Probably down to their collective headlessness.) "Sherlock," she tsks, "You can't actually rip a hole in the fabric of time."
> 
> "Oh of course I can, Mother, don't be ridiculous. I just need to—"
> 
> Mycroft sighs loudly.
> 
> Sherlock continues haughtily: "Well, what do _you_ propose I do to attract the Doctor's attention? I'm not a girl, am I? Oh do stop _giggling_ Mycroft, this is _serious_!"

> Snow. 

> Sherlock is sitting at what appears to be a kitchen table with a mess of chemistry equipment bubbling all around him. He doesn't look up as the picture comes in closer.
> 
> Mycroft's off camera voice: "Why don't you tell the nice people at home what it is you're doing?"
> 
> Sherlock sighs, whipping his goggles off and setting his untamed hair sticking up at even worse angles. "Making grog, what does it look like?"
> 
> "Oh, I'll tell you what it looks like . . . "
> 
> Sherlock rolls his eyes, puts his goggles back on. "Go away, Mycroft, I'm busy."
> 
> "And would you mind telling us _why_ you're making grog?"
> 
> "Good Lord, are you honestly this obtuse? What sort of pirate would I be if I didn't have a decent supply of grog onboard my ship?"
> 
> "Ship?"
> 
> "Yes, and I'll thank you not to go blabbing about it to the authorities until after I've forged the boating permit."

> Snow. 

 

"Sorry, did you just follow your little brother around with a camera to document his weirdness?"

"I . . . Well, you have a sister, you know how it is . . ."

"Nope."

 

> Sherlock is sitting at a long table that looks too sophisticated to actually eat off of. Around him are massive bowls brimming with vegetables, and he's scribbling in a well-worn notepad while munching on a piece of raw broccoli. This goes on for a good five minutes.

 

"What's he doing?"

"He never ate his vegetables, so one day I managed to convince him that his argument against them had no solid evidence to back it up, and therefore chronicling their lacking nutritional value was the only way to convince Mother of their uselessness as food."

"You told him he had to eat his veggies . . . for science."

"Well, nothing else worked." Mycroft twirls his umbrella around idly. "I only set up the camera to make sure he actually did it."

"That's almost sweet," John says. "Almost." He feels sure Mycroft is indirectly responsible for Sherlock's aversion to food in general, now. Sherlock had probably decided every kind of food was a waste of time this way.

 

> The picture blinks in and out a few times before settling. At first it's just a hardwood floor punctuated by the occasional, blurred area rug. Then the camera zeroes in on a cracked open door. Inside the room is another miniature Sherlock, standing in the middle of a rarely used parlor in his school uniform with his back to the door and a tiny violin on his shoulder.
> 
> He is playing the Indiana Jones theme music. Or trying to.

 

John raises an eyebrow.

"For blackmail," Mycroft explains. "And to make sure he practiced instead of just . . . well." He gestures at the screen.

"You _did_ have parents, yes?"

Mycroft's head tilts to the side, considering. "In a manner of speaking."

John would rather not open that particular can of worms.

Mycroft's looking at him expectantly. Unfortunately for him, John never has any idea what he expects, and so wonders why Mycroft wastes his time with the look in the first place.

"You do realize this is not completely ethical." Clearly Mycroft's passion for sneakiness had started around the same time as Sherlock's for science. "You can't just go around filming people without their knowledge. Even if you're a kid."

"Yes, I thought you'd say that." Mycroft's still watching him.

"This . . . isn't the reason you brought me here."

"No. But it was good fun, wasn't it?"

John snorts. "You and your brother have some very . . . creative definitions of fun."

"It's funny you should say that John," Mycroft smiles, then fiddles with the remote and skips ahead.

 

> It's the flat. 221B, that is. It's John walking around the living room.

 

John frowns, points at the screen. "Wait, b— _you_ didn't—"

"No."

 

> As John shuffles through the flat the picture shifts to a view of the kitchen, and then the bathroom. (So, motion sensing security cameras in his place of residence. Excellent.)
> 
> John turns the tap on and shrugs out of his shirt, then unbuttons—

 

Mycroft exits out of the program. "Well, you get the idea."

But John's entire face is committed to an epic frown, so he hasn't any spare energy to work out whatever Mycroft wants him to work out. "Sherlock's set up cameras in the flat. Don't know why you're so surprised—seems to run the family."

Mycroft offers and indulgent little smirk. "And why do you think Sherlock needs the cameras?"

John laughs. "Look, I learned a long time ago that when it comes to Sherlock, it's best not to think too hard about the 'why' of it all."

"Sherlock is notably concerned about security, then? He locks the door and keeps a light on when you go out, that sort of thing?"

"Well . . . " John hears Sherlock in his head saying, _What would we need to close the door for, John? I always know when someone is coming round_. "Well, not really."

Mycroft makes the show standing, smoothing out his trousers and rebuttoning his jacket. "So . . . there must be some other reason." He's already slinking away into the shadows. "One supposes," he adds ominously.

John sits in the darkened room for a minute before realizing he doesn't even know where Mycroft's brought him.

*

John takes a taxi back to Baker Street. Really, Mycroft could at least have spotted him the fare—John had never been a willing participant in his needlessly Bond villain shenanigans.

When John walks into the living room he can't help but glance in the direction of the camera before turning his attention to Sherlock. If Sherlock notices, he doesn't say anything. He's apparently absorbed in his phone.

"So," John says, looking around. Sherlock still hasn't looked up. "What do you want to do tonight?"

"The same thing we do every night, John," Sherlock says, and his deeper voice throws John off for a minute. "Try to—"

"Y'know on second thought I'm actually not very keen on being diplomatic about this—why the _hell_ are you filming me?"

Sherlock doesn't even flinch. He just taps away on his phone, sinks a little deeper into his armchair. "Security," is all he says.

"We don't lock the door!"

"Yes. Hence the security _cameras_."

"Okay, but in the bloody bathroom?"

Sherlock makes a face, which doesn't interrupt his staring contest with his phone. "Oh yes, you're quite right, criminals always do take a step back and make sure to respect their victims' privacy when mid-crime."

"Oh just." John sputters. "Just. Urgh. Whatever." He leaves.

 

 

He storms back in. "No no no, that's not right."

"Isn't it?" Sherlock drawls.

"You always know when someone's coming over—what do you need security cameras for?"

Hint of a smile, there. "Therefore . . ."

"But why would you . . . hm." Sherlock's smirking to himself, now. Infuriatingly.

Eventually Sherlock sighs and pockets his phone, lays his arms on the armrests of his chair. "Do I really have to spell it out for you?"

John shrugs.

"Watching you is sexually arousing to me. Because I don't desire a 'romantic' relationship, deriving satisfaction from images, then, is the most efficient method to alleviate it."

And of all the things John could've said to that, the one he lands on is: "I thought you were, what, asexual?"

"Just because I don't let sex get in the way of thinking doesn't mean I'm asexual. That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"

" _That's_ a bit ex—oh, never mind. Just never mind. _What's_ so arousing about video of me sitting around the flat all day?"

"You do masturbate with worryingly frequency whenever I'm not around," Sherlock says, as though they were just talking football scores like normal blokes did. "And sometimes when I am."

"Did you really have to go to such lengths to . . . I mean, you're _filming_ me? Seriously?"

"Well, I didn't think you'd like me filming you having sex _with_ other people."

"Well, no, obviously, but . . . But."

Sherlock shrugs like it's abundantly clear that John's driven him to this, and as such John shouldn't be making such a fuss about it. "Well, I can't very well proposition you for sex. We're friends."

"Sarah's my friend," John points out, although what point he's trying to make is beyond him.

"Sarah's a friend with whom you've had orgasms. Even I know it's completely different."

John gapes. "I. She's. _You're_."

Sherlock waits. Then he simpers. It's horrifying.

"Look, just— _look_ ," John says sternly. "It doesn't even matter. I'm not attracted to men."

"How do you know?"

John laughs. "Er, trust me, Sherlock, I know."

"Ever slept with a man?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Then you can't know, for certain."

John throws his hands up. It's vegetables all over again. "Fine. Yes. You're right."

Sherlock clasps his hands together. "We should conduct an experiment."

John laughs. "Oh, really, _how_ cliché can you be?"

Sherlock shrugs, stands and gets mixed up in John's personal space. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."

But John's reply is lost somewhere in Sherlock's mouth because Sherlock's kissed him, in fact, and John gets dizzy with a sensation which is unexpectedly terrifying in its intensity.

John breaks the kiss to breathe. "God, that was unsettling. The 'my dear' part, not the, ah . . ." He finds himself staring at Sherlock's wet mouth. " . . . yeah. Not the other part. Also, that's not the right part of the movie, it's actuall—"

"Oh, don't act like having one up on me when it comes to sensational pop culture is any sort of achievement."

John smirks at him. Then he kisses him.

It feels like an out of body experience—John's eyes closing while Sherlock's lips move against his, John's hands gripping at Sherlock's arms and his mind blissfully blanking out. He sucks at Sherlock's tongue until Sherlock's moaning reluctant little moans, determined to take control of the kiss since he's completely lost control of himself, otherwise.

It's not long before they're stumbling passionately in the direction of Sherlock's room, and John imagines the cameras motion sensing them along their path.

He then imagines the cameras following them right back out into the kitchen again.

"John, where . . . ?"

"I'm willing to bet I'm more well-stocked than you are," John says, dragging him up the stairs, now.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow wryly. "Planning on this, were you?"

"Oh you are a bloody awful excuse for a detective," John says, although most of it is lost to the ensuing kiss that finds him pressed against the door to his bedroom by this terribly sensual thing that Sherlock has morphed into.

He's unbuttoning John's shirt, now, and all John can do is look on dumbly—his every nerve ending is listless and shaky and uncooperative. Eventually his snaps out of it, reaches for Sherlock's belt and pulls him closer by it for more kissing before working on the buckle.

"I’m not boring you?" John leers.

Sherlock glances down, then leers right back. "Clearly not," Sherlock says, bends to suck at John's neck. This makes it difficult to concentrate, but John still manages to pull Sherlock's cock out of his trousers.

Sherlock moans when John settles into a steady rhythm, gripping his cock vaguely and spreading precome around with his thumb, stupid with lust and the idea that he could get Sherlock like this. Sherlock moans again, and good Lord his voice is far too luscious for its own good. John fists a hand in Sherlock's hair to stop him working magic over John's neck, stops Sherlock's mouth with his own and makes an embarrassingly needy sound against Sherlock's lips.

These are by far the most exciting kisses John's ever partaken in, which probably has to do with the fact that it's Sherlock, cold unavailable Sherlock, and that he's responding so sensuously. How could John _not_ react to this? He keeps jerking Sherlock's cock and barely flinches at all when Sherlock works his hand inside John's trousers, too, and John definitely doesn't whine into Sherlock's mouth at the sensation, or clutch him tighter, or want to beg him for more with unabashed abandon.

John is interested to find he isn't suffering from pent-up lust or harboring any long-repressed romantic inclinations. He loves Sherlock, though. He's felt this way in other friendships—this is _how_ friendship feels. The thing is, though, that he hasn't any friends left. They've all moved on or away or have died violently right in front of him, like God was taunting him for caring too much. All his friends had somebody else, now, but John knows he's Sherlock's only somebody else, and it gives John a greedy little thrill to know that.

This feeling toward Sherlock is more like a friendship that's overlaid by lust. It isn't really very romantic at all. It feels easy and natural and free of the stress of a more official attempt at a romance, and John likes it quite a lot.

He's also a fan of Sherlock's hand on his cock with the long slow pulls and the just hard enough grip and everything.

"Sherlock," John breathes, head thunking back against the door. "God, yes." Somewhere beneath the haze of desire he manages to continue stroking Sherlock's cock, too, tries to imitate his rhythm with limited success.

Oh, God, the _look_ Sherlock is giving him, though—surprised and heated and dazed, greenish and shuttered by abruptly lovely eyelashes.

John's heart is hammering against his rib cage, but he still manages to feel a little smug. He jerks Sherlock's cock more insistently, tilts his head to kiss at his jaw. Sherlock pauses to shudder, then matches John's pace and John's eyes roll back in his head, can't deal with the searing hotness of it all. The world is spinning and he hadn't thought it possible to lose any more control than he already has, to the situation or to his own treacherous body or to Sherlock in general. Oh, he doesn't care. So good, it's just so _fucking_ good . . .

John tenses and comes, shaking and unexpected, shouts something nonsensical but luckily it's muffled because Sherlock's pressed his mouth against John's messily again.

John pumps Sherlock's cock faster, wants to see him fall apart, and if John gets to be responsible, then all the better. He fights the fuzzy pleasure that's spreading through his limbs, leans in to gasp vague encouragements into Sherlock ear.

Sherlock groans, " _John_ ," when he comes. Sherlock leans against him, utterly undone, panting and gorgeous, and John wonders if he'll ever stop wanting to get Sherlock like this. John touches Sherlock's hair absently and waits for his heart rate to slow, worried that if he starts talking he might say something completely idiotic, and then he might never stop speaking at all.

Sherlock emerges from his reverie, blinks John into focus and studies him for a long time. "Yes."

John tries to glare, but suspects it's spoiled by the dopey grin plastered to his face. "Hm?"

"Yes, there is a camera in this room."

John laughs. "That wasn't what I was thinking, actually."

"Oh." It's disconcerting how quickly Sherlock's gone back to being aloof while John is still fizzling with endorphins. "What were you thinking?"

John sighs happily, props himself up against the door a little better. "Absolutely nothing."

Sherlock wrinkles his nose.

"So," John says, places a hand on Sherlock's chest just because he feels like he can. Sherlock frowns at it, which is hilarious because he's standing there with his trousers around his knees and his cock out while he does it. "Are you going to, you know, _relive_ this later on, with the footage?"

"Possibly."

"Or," John grins, "we can always just do this again . . . "

Sherlock shrugs. "I suppose so." He does his trousers up and turns to leave.

John catches his arm, suddenly uninterested in the humor of the situation. "Sherlock."

Sherlock gives a put upon sigh. "This is boring, John."

"Oh. Oh, right."

Sherlock turns back to him to make sure John can see he's rolling his eyes. " _This_ is boring." Gestures between them. "This part. I much prefer the other part."

"The, er . . . the sex part?"

"Precisely." Sherlock just looks worried for John's health, now.

John laughs. "You and your brother have the same 'John is incredibly dense' look, you know."

Sherlock nods slowly, then pushes past him. "Definitely leaving now."

*


End file.
